


Le Violon de la Mort

by d0ct0rd0ct0r



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Paris (City), Victorian, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d0ct0rd0ct0r/pseuds/d0ct0rd0ct0r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1882, after being injured in Afghanistan, John Watson moves from London to Paris. There, he meets Sherlock Holmes: an enigma of a man who keeps opposite hours, plays the violin, and investigates interesting cases. They move to a flat together and grow close despite their disparate interests. However, John worries about his nocturnal friend who wanders the streets of Paris when <i>le vampire parisien</i>, the evasive serial killer who drains the blood of his victims, is on the prowl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vivre la vie morte

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this on a whim after seeing the short film "Quatier de la Madeleine" and getting a craving for some Sherlock fic set in Paris with vampires. Johnlock, of course, but the actually romance doesn't happen for a while. All French is translated at the end of each chapter.

“J'implore ta pitié, Toi, l'unique que j'aime,   
(O, my sole love, I pray thee pity me,)   
Du fond du gouffre obscur où mon coeur est tombé.   
(From out this dark gulf where my poor heart fell.)   
C'est un univers morne à l'horizon plombé,   
(A barren world hemmed in by leaden skies,)   
Où nagent dans la nuit l'horreur et le blasphème...   
(Where swim in night horror and blasphemy...)”   
\- “De profundis clamavi” by Charles Bauldelaire

* * *

Chapitre Un: Vivre la vie morte.  
"Waking up dead inside of my head will never never do, there is no medicine to take." - Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Slow Cheetah."

I moved to Paris, France in the winter of 1882. My service in India, interrupted by my transfer to Afghanistan at the beginning of the second Afghan war, had been cut short by an unfortunate injury I had sustained in Maiwand. Defeated, I returned to London, where I lived a lonely and sheltered life, penniless and useless. My thirtieth year came and went with no celebration, and my sudden shift in locale was only brought about by misfortune. Some distant cousin of mine, some Harry Watson in Manchester, passed away with some considerable sums to his name. My family had been depleted by the illnesses of mind and body that ran in our blood, as had his, and I was his closest living relative.

With some two-thousand pounds in my possession, I took it upon myself to seek a new location. I knew neither a place nor a person for which to look in London, despite its impinging familiarity. Regret layheavy in my heart as I paid for my ticket across the English channel. My new destination was Paris, France; my plan was to find a place to stay with the naivety of an Englishman new in France.

The world lay before me, pearlescent and uncertain, and I journeyed to a country that spoke a language I did not without a plan nor a care in the world.

Paris unfolded around me: glittering buildings, high-quality stores already outfitted with electric lights, and a sort of drawn-up snobbishness to the people that made for a certain attractiveness. I was _le touriste anglaise_ 1, an object of pity and scorn. Lodgings were impossible to find the first fortnight I spent there; my residency was a small hotel near the muddy banks of the Seine, long before the construction and fame of _la dame de fer_ , _la Tour Eiffel_ _elle-m_ _ê_ _me_ 2. The Seine was beautiful and unmolested, as far as more modern standards might say.

In that small hotel, mostly confined to my bed and books, the troubles of the world outside barely reached me. Though I followed the linked deaths across the city-people of all ages found in dark corners, without a drop of blood and no sign of struggle-they seemed far away from me. The miasma of loneliness and hopelessness descended upon me and my own struggles far outweighed those of the dead.

I remained lost and confused around this large city with which I was not acquainted until chance lead me to meet someone I had not seen since my days in medical school, a Mr. Stamford who had been a distant acquaintance. I caught a familiar eye as I walked out of a bar, poor beer and self-pity weighing as heavily on my mind as the bloody sun weighed on the horizon. Unfortunately, he did not recognize me, a man changed by years at war and the grievous injury I had sustained. " _Monsieur_!" he exclaimed. His French was laborious but precise. " _Qui_ _ê_ _tes-vous? Vraiment, vous ne pouvez pas_ _ê_ _tre mon vieil ami Watson? Vous lui ressemblez, mais vous_ _ê_ _tes trop maigre et-_ "3

"Calm yourself, Stamford," I answered with a laugh, "I am _ton vieil ami_ Watson."

Stamford's eyes widened and he clasped my right hand in both of his. "Truly extraordinary! You are the last person I would expect to see _here_!" His grin reached either side of his face, making his child-like large eyes even more cartoonish. "Have you just moved here? Where are you living?"

"Unfortunately, that seems to be my problem." Shame ran its course through me and I found myself more interested in the ground than the conversation. "I have been unable to find proper lodgings for myself at a reasonable price. Is there any place you might recommend?"

"There is," Stamford said, leading the way down the crowded street. The darkness of night and the full moon glimmered over Paris as we walked deeper into the city. My senses stood alert, bothering my injured shoulder, and the headlines of the papers rushed through my head. _Fifth man this month found dead in Paris._ I rather hoped that Stamford would be taking me to a safe place inside. "Rather surprising, you're the second person who's asked me for just that today."

My eyebrows raised-what an improbable coincidence this all seemed to be. "Really?"

He nodded again, maneuvering the streets. I did not know how long he had lived in Paris, but he seemed to know it fairly well. Perhaps his knowledge could secure our safety if the mysterious murderer came after us. "A man who works in the laboratories adjacent to the university has recently asked around for a flat-mate. He, apparently, has found cheap lodgings, though his funds are so slim that he wishes to share it."

"Serendipity is a funny thing," I remarked as we crossed over to a tall building that spiraled into the sky. It was silhouetted perfectly against the moon, looking like the giant minute hand frozen in place of a luminous clock.

"He should just be getting in now," Stamford told me with all of the infectious delight he had spread to patients whose wounds he was dressing. Of all the many doctors I knew, Stamford was the one whose bedside manner was the best. It was no real effort on his part, as it was for the many with naturally grim countenances. Stamford was an easily amused man who could easily amuse others. "Ah! There he is!" He pointed out a tall man coming in from another door, a lean silhouette against the modest electrical lighting in the building. It was a small laboratory, though well-furnished and very functional. "Speak of the devil, _c'est Sherlock Holmes_." 4

" _Je suis plus malfaisant que ce que l'on aime penser_ ," the man quipped, taking off a woolen coat. " _Eh? Qui est cet homme?_ "5

" _C'est un vieil ami_ ," Stamford answered in his certain way. " _Il s'appelle Watson_ , _et il cherchait pour un appartement._ "6

Sherlock Holmes turned to me then, and his lucid grey eyes set to sizing me up. " _Je vois. Vous étiez, si je ne me trompe pas, stationner en Afghanistan._ "7

" _Oui, monsieur_ ," I replied, dumbfounded. " _Mais, comment vous avez su?_ "8

He smiled something cold and unrevealing. " _C'est un de mes talents._ "9

I nodded, conceding his point. " _Je suis arrivé ici il y a deux semaines, de Londres_ -"10

"Ah, so you're English," Holmes interjected in flawless English. He had a sort of Royal accent, but a few of his words had the distinct slur of London, however, which made his accent an interesting one to parse.

"As are you, I see."

"Precisely," Holmes stated, turning from Stamford and me to look at an array of clear, labeled glass bottled lined in neat rows upon the table in front of him. "You _see_ , but you do not _observe_." Pleased with his statement, Holmes sat on the stool and brought a Bunsen burner to life.

"I don't understand," I said, watching Holmes at work. He had long fingers, too long even for his large palms, that were so delicate he seemed to be able to pluck a mote of dust out of the air without disturbance.

"Few do," he replied in his grim manner.

Stamford, who had been watching our conversation with little interest, cleared his throat, "Don't _bore_ him with your talk of deduction, Holmes. Get to the point."

"Ah, yes, the lodgings." Holmes turned to me with a pleased look on his face-far from the cold smile he had shown earlier, it was more genuine and less guarded, though not even the corners of his chapped lips twitched. "I require a room-mate to share a flat I have found. It is of a fair size, with two separate bedrooms, and space enough for two men to live separate lives."

I nodded. "I wasn't particularly looking for a shared flat," I stated, "but if you are unobtrusive-"

"I keep odd hours," Holmes interrupted me once more, "and many would say I am strictly nocturnal. There are few disturbances you could make during the day to bother my sleep. I often go out, sometimes have strange company, and I play the violin."

Holmes seemed agreeable enough as a flat-mate, and I nodded. "I am lazy and self-indulgent, no particular man for conversation, and my injury sometimes confines me to bed for days. I sleep deeply enough when I am not troubled by night terrors and pain."

"And the violin?"

"A good violinist is a gift to man," I told him.

His eyes sparkled as that pleased look took over his face once more. "It would seem that we get on well enough."

"Brilliant," said Stamford. "I must be off, you two, don't want to get caught by the serial murderer on my way home. Please do get in touch with me, Watson."

I promised to do that as Stamford walked out of the laboratory, closing the door behind him and shutting me in with this bizarre English stranger. There was a certain, peculiar glow about Holmes that followed him, leaving after-effects to blur my vision. His skin was exceedingly pale-an obvious mark of his nighttime lifestyle-but he looked to be in good shape. I wondered where this mysterious flat was, and I had little to do until I knew of its location. "Please wait for a moment," Holmes said as if he had heard my thoughts, "I simply need to finish this precipitate-it shouldn't take me more than an hour, at the most-and then I can show you to our new location." He looked at me, setting a test-tube into a wooden rack. "I trust you have a way to transport your items?"

"What I have could be carried from my hotel in a cab." What I had kept in the journeys from London to Afghanistan, Afghanistan to London, and London to Paris were few objects: some books, old papers, a few personal affects, and my pistol; moving would hardly be an issue. "Is this flat already furnished?"

"Indeed!" Holmes said. "Scantly, but I believe it will be enough. Now, Watson, would you be so kind as to verify the color of this precipitate?"

"Certainly, though it may be hard to see in this darkness." The lights were dim in the laboratory, but there was just enough to see. I walked down the long row of laboratory benches to my new acquaintance, who sat and stared at a small glass flask. It was filled half-way with a transparent brownish substance, light flakes of some chemical floating to its bottom. "Against the brown, they appear to be white."

"Thank you, Watson," Holmes stated. "It would appear that we shall get along famously."

* * *

1: the English tourist  
2: the iron lady, the Eiffel Tower herself.  
3: "Who are you? Truly, you could not be my old friend Watson? You look like him, but you are too skinny and-"  
4: "…it's Sherlock Holmes."  
5: "I am more evil than people like to think […] Eh? Who is this man?"  
6: "He is an old friend of mine […] His name is Watson, and he was looking for a flat."  
7: "I see. You were, if I am not mistaken, stationed in Afghanistan."  
8: "Yes, sir. […] But how do you know?  
9: "It is a talent of mine."  
10: "I came here two weeks ago, from London-"


	2. Une étude en écarlate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I kind of dropped this fic as a whole, but I figured I'd put up the rest of what I'd written. there's this chapter and then about half a chapter. Consider this fic officially dropped.

“Tell me, is there something eluding you, Sunshine? Is this not what you expected to see? If you want to find out what’s behind these cold eyes, you’ll just have to claw your way through this disguise.” - Pink Floyd, “In The Flesh?”  
  
I arrived at the location, 33 Rue Dunôt, a little after one in the afternoon the day following. I had surveyed the flat the night before. It was exactly as Sherlock Holmes had described: small, with scant furnishings, up a flight of stairs in a cozy and secluded area. I had been true to my word; all of my items fit in a few boxes which were easily carried by the hansom I took to the flats. Due to my still-injured shoulder, I was forced to make a trip up and down the stairs for every box. Eventually, and with little protest from my injured limb, I made my way into my new living quarters. My boxes were piled in a neat stack by the door, and it was evident that Holmes had already brought many of his possessions; open boxes lay on their sides around the small salon(1) and tall stacks of thick tomes leaned against every vertical surface. A considerable amount of delicate and curious equipment was strewn over the long counters in the kitchen.  
  
Mr. Sherlock Holmes appeared to be a very curious man indeed, and one already settled into this place.  
  
Despite his great number of personal affects, my new flat-mate was nowhere to be seen. Our landlady, one Mme Marchand, was out on some errand--she had passed me on her way out and introduced herself--and unable to tell me if Holmes was out on some trip. I set out, then, to look through the house by the light of the bright afternoon sun with no-one to disturb. I first walked into the bedroom adjacent to the salon, the one Holmes had told me was mine, and verified that it was empty. I was too wary of his instruments to look through the kitchen, so I started up the flight of creaking stairs that lead to the attic bedroom, absolutely certain that I was not going to intrude upon my absent acquaintance. I hadn’t the chance to look at the second bedroom the night previous. The stairs felt longer and steeper than those from the ground level to the first floor, but they were not impossible.  
  
At the top of the stairs, on a small and shaky wooden landing, I looked at the small door before me and knocked. There was no response.  
  
I pushed open the half-closed door, revealing a dark and dusty room. There was an unnamable air to it that was so thick it clung to the inside of my mouth. I took a step forward, interrupting dust on the floor. A small amount of light followed me, outlining the old wooden floor. In the darkest corner was a modest bed. Atop the bed was the sharp outline of a tall, thin man. Sherlock Holmes.  
Embarrassed, I walked back out of the room and onto the landing. The wood warped beneath my feet and alerted me to the nearby stairs. The heavy door swung itself half-closed once more. I recalled the words Holmes had spoken about his nocturnal habits and fled down the stairs, glad that I had not woken him from his slumber.  
  
Sherlock Holmes was indeed turning out to be a most peculiar fellow.  
  
***  
  
I retired early that evening. My boxes were all in my chamber at that point, some clothing in my drawers and books unpacked by my bed. After my afternoon embarrassment--which my companion, hopefully, would not mention--my shoulder had started burning once more. I supposed that the odd damp of 33 Rue Pinôt was bothering it and thus resigned myself to a few days stuck in bed while it adjusted. Though I had books, I did not have any works of fiction and I was bored by the lack of entertainment. Having seen no further use for them, I had left the few penny dreadfuls purchased on the way from London in a stack beneath my bed at the hotel. All I had in my possession were my thick medical texts, which were impossible to read with my shoulder in its condition.  
  
My slight hunger had been sated by the small dinner Mme Marchand had brought me. I lay in my bed, staring at the papery ceiling above me, and wondered how it was that my new flat-mate could live a solely nocturnal lifestyle. My reverie, however, was interrupted by a knock on the door. I was not expecting anyone, for the only person I knew in the city was Stamford; the visitor must have been Holmes’. Was I supposed to answer it? There was another knock, then another, then yet another, all in quick succession. I took that as an answer and stood, shuffling across the floor and out of my room. The light outside was fading, but I had not heard a sound coming from my flat-mate’s bedroom.  
  
I opened the door to reveal a tall young woman of African descent who hid her dark hair and darker eyes behind a black veil. She was pretty in an unusual way, her broad shoulders seeming delicate by the way she held them. Her face was twisted into a distraught expression. She pressed into the house, putting a hand on my shoulder. Her long nails, colored with scarlet varnish, clicked against the buttons on my collar. “Etes-vous Monsieur Holmes?”(2)  
  
I stepped back, letting her into the front room. “Non, mademoiselle,” I told her, “je suis son...” I did not know the French word for “flat-mate,” nor did I want to borrow the English. “...Monsieur Holmes et moi, nous habitons ici. Je m‘appelle Docteur John Watson.”(3)  
  
The woman hesitated. “Est-il ici?”(4)  
  
“Oui.” I lead her toward the only chair in the salon at the time, some old posh armchair that Holmes had decried as being the ugliest thing he had ever seen. “Il dors, mais je peux le réveiller. Asseyez-vous, je vous pris.”(5) She perched at the edge of the chair, her hands fists in her skirt. I smiled at her in an attempt to be reassuring before turning away and heading for the stairs. My pace was faster than it had been earlier that day and the stairs creaked louder beneath me. The door was still ajar from my disturbance, and I walked inside. Dust shifted beneath my feet, and it was almost impossible to see with only the remnants of the sun. “Holmes,” I said, my voice bouncing off of the walls, “there is a young woman waiting for you downstairs.” The figure on the bed did not stir, staying in place like it was dead. I walked closer to it, further into the darkness. It penetrated my body entirely, making my shoulder ache. “Sherlock Holmes,” I repeated, his full name rolling off of my tongue. It was a nice name to say aloud. “Wake up.” At this point, I was right next to the bed, looking over the shaded figure, seeing only his mess of brown hair.  
  
The sky darkened outside of the window across from the attic and the only light came from the electric lamps downstairs. A new chill passed through the room, emanating from Holmes, and he sat straight up. He sniffed the air and looked at me, through me, even in the complete darkness of the room. “Watson?” he asked, his voice shaking with a quiet and cold timber. “What the hell are you doing here?”  
  
“A young woman was at the door, asking for you.” The room felt freezing and, though I wanted to, I could not move from the spot next to Holmes’ bed.  
  
“I ought to meet her, then.” The tension surrounding Holmes evaporated in an instant. He stood, stretching. “Do not disturb me again, do you understand?” I nodded, my left arm shaking with the pain that seared through it. Holmes passed me like I wasn’t there, heading down the stairs with a tread so light none of them creaked. I followed him down, the silence not following me, and walked into my room. “Je suis Sherlock Holmes, détective-conseil. Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”(6)  
  
Some thirty minutes later, as I was finally drifting off, the conversation ceased outside and there was a knock on my door. It opened and I sat up, sheets still over my dressing gown. Holmes stood in silhouette at my door, his own dressing gown billowing around him. “Holmes?” I asked.  
  
“It would appear that it’s my turn to encroach on your sleep,” he replied. “You are a doctor.” He stated this with the utmost solemnity. Holmes shifted from foot to foot, impatient, in my doorframe. “I lack certain medical skills which might be useful in my current case and I would appreciate your help.” Holmes’ words were grating, as if he were begrudging me for ever having been a medical doctor in the first place.  
  
My posture still straightened, however. During both weeks of my stay in Paris, to that point, I had been inquiring for work at hospitals, or as assistants to other doctors, with no luck. To use my learned skills so soon after losing my position in the army would be an incredible occasion. I told Holmes as such, making him roll his eyes and dance between feet faster. “This is not a cause for celebration, Dr. Watson. We are dealing with a very ill, potentially insane, man who might become dangerous. Would you like to assist or not?”  
  
“Of course,” I answered, “when?”  
  
“Now, of course.” Holmes spun round on his heel and disappeared from my view just as suddenly as he had entered it. I pulled myself out of bed, shoulder straining, and started looking for proper clothing amidst my few possessions. “Watson, this is an emergency house call.” Holmes had returned to my presence faster than lightning, already holding my boots. He shoved them into my hands and tapped his foot impatiently. As soon as they were on my feet, Holmes walked out of the room at a brisk pace. I struggled to follow him. In the light, I could see the heavy woolen coat he wore over his dressing gown as well as the bag he carried at his side. The woman from before was still standing next to him, shaking. “Ou habitez-vous?”(7)  
  
Holmes lead us down the stairs and out the front door as she told him her address. “C’est près la Seine,” the woman finished, stepping onto the road in front of the apartment. The gentle wind that blew through the night rustled her immaculate gown, her veil and hair flying with it. She was the image, it seemed, of perfection cracking under intense stress. “Mon mari...”(8)  
  
Holmes nodded at her and started down the sidewalk. “Vous avez pris le chemin?” The young woman managed an affirmative. “Je comprends ce que vous voyez. Nous pouvons le sauver, si nous nous dépêchons.”(9)

  


***

  


The house to which she lead us was near the hotel in which I had stayed, and still not far from Rue Pinôt. It was an old building, worn by years of the damp river running past it, little more than a shack. The young woman--Mme Angelique Décollère--lead us through the decaying front door. “Taisez-vous! Il est très sensible au bruit.”(10)  
  
Holmes was the first of us to enter the small house. He started walking with a stoop, shuffling through the door and into the pitch black interior. Once inside, Holmes looked around, seeing through the cloak of darkness. He straightened up and sniffed the air before beckoning for me. “Madame, vous devrez rester. Ce sera dangereux.”(11) Mme Décollère looked at Holmes and straightened her posture, pushing her shoulders back. Her dark skin was glossy under her veil and her eyes shone with indignation.  
  
“Je ne pense pas, Monsieur Holmes.” She crossed her arms over her chest and took a step forward. “C’est mon mari et je devrais pouvoir le voir.”(12) Holmes shrugged, then nodded, and pressed forward into the house. Mme Décollère walked in before me, lighting the candle on a wooden table and taking long strides so as to meet Holmes. I followed them both, trailing behind and wondering if I could be of use. Without another word, she lead him to a door that was locked from the outside. Holmes paused, standing absolutely still, and sniffed the air once more. Then, he cupped a hand to his ear and listened.  
  
“Comprenez-vous que l’homme dans cette chambre ne pourrais pas être votre mari?”(13) he asked, his thin brows dark over his eyes and his voice softer than usual. Mme Décollère nodded, still silent. Holmes looked at me over her shoulder. “Then, Dr. Watson, we shall begin.” I walked around Mme Décollère, whose arms were crossed tightly against her chest, to reach Holmes. He passed me his bag, leaning in close to me. “This will be a very dangerous undertaking. In no event should you run or scream. If you injure yourself please make haste in leaving the room. Never attempt to restrain, always let me have the honor.” His breath was cool by my ear, ticking the hairs on my neck.  
  
I nodded.  
  
Holmes slipped the key that Mme Décollère had given him into the padlock, then cracked the door open. What little light had been in the house from her candle was extinguished in this room. The walls seemed to absorb light, and the only evidence that anything was inside was the soft growl from a distant corner. Though Holmes had no apparent difficulty seeing in that darkness, he took the candle from Mme Décollère and put his hand over it, dimming its light. “You will find silver chains and restraints in my bag,” he whispered at the threshold. “Once I have restrained Décollère, you are to bind him with those chains. This candle will disorient him and give you ample light to see so you can. The smaller two are for his wrists, the larger for his ankles. Understand?” I nodded once more and we entered the room. Holmes stood in front of me, in a position to guard me, and the growling in the corner increased in volume.  
  
He uncovered the candle and the thing--it was barely a man--in the corner hissed and backed up. Holmes carried it with him as he walked forth to the cowering wretch. He placed it on the ground and crouched over the man, pinning him half against the wall. In a swift and fluid motion, Holmes had the man on his stomach. “Watson!”  
  
I pulled the mass of silver chains from the bag he had given me. It was arranged in a cross shape, the wrist cuffs connected to the ankle cuffs. They did not have a key, but instead used latches. I opened them and walked forward. Holmes’ sharp knees were in the soft backs of the man’s, and he was holding his elbows. I knelt as well and clicked the wrist braces into place.  
  
There was a soft hiss, like water dousing fire, and then the man screamed. It wasn’t like any other scream ever made by a man, nor should it have been. It was worse than a man in pain, burning alive and screaming, and more feral than the death cry of a prisoner’s last breath. I jolted at the sound, but Holmes smacked me on the back of my head. The physical shock pushed me back into action, with just enough sense to put the ankle cuffs on the creature that seemed to be less and less like a man by the second.  
  
When I released his ankles, I noticed the deep red welts that appeared on his skin where it touched the silver. His arms and legs were pulled back to his back, the intersection of the two braces a taut cross over his back. Holmes, shaking at the intense noise that rattled off every wall, flipped the man over and onto his knees. Then, he pulled his handkerchief out of his sleeve and shoved it into the man’s mouth.  
  
Silence.  
  
Holmes stilled, his shoulders straight and tense, breathless. I looked down at the man before me, shivering violently but silenced by the choking fabric. He was just as dark as his wife, with close-cropped hair and a short, trim beard. He looked washed-out, however, like I was seeing him through a veil and he was somewhere else. His eyes, wide with pain, were clear, neither glazed nor bloodshot, and his pupils wide. The sliver of iris I could see was an alarming shade of blood-red, however. “What’s wrong with him?” I found myself asking, the whispered words slipping from my mind and into the air.  
“He is far gone,” said Holmes, his voice trembling. “I have not seen a case like his in a long time. This man is beyond saving.”  
  
“Why did you need me if you knew what the problem was?”  
  
Holmes sat back, his long legs folding under him. His hands were still on his thighs and his grey eyes were hollow in the light of the candle. “This is a two-man job, Dr. Watson. As much as I may hate to admit it, I cannot do this alone.” He looked at the struggling man next to us. “We must properly dispose of him now.”  
  
“And how shall we do that?” I asked, standing up and brushing off my dressing gown.  
  
“Like this,” said Holmes, picking up the candle from its holder, ignoring the burning wax dripping over his fingers, and setting the man’s clothing ablaze.  
  
***  
  
It was around two in the morning when we returned to our flat on Rue Pinôt. My heart was still palpitating from the shock of seeing the man’s papery skin take to the fire, his eyes widening yet more as it came upon his face, the way that they seemed to dribble and melt out of his sockets. He was ashes held together by a few sinews when we threw him into the Seine, what remained of him melting and drifting apart. I doubted that I would be able to sleep for some time yet, and I took to sitting in the salon with Holmes. I was leafing through one of my many medical volumes, attempting to match the dead man’s symptoms to some disease that I could not find. He was perched on a fat green armchair across from me, a good distance away from the fire, smoking a beautiful wood pipe. The room was filled with the cloying smell of tobacco smoke, but I found myself unable to care. My chest was already too tight to breathe; the smoke could not make things any worse. A question bothered at the back of my mind and I looked at Holmes.  
  
“Why,” I asked, “did you tell that to Décollère? You appealed to her superstitions--why?”  
  
“The truth, Dr. Watson, sometimes sounds much less probable than any lie I could tell.” Holmes breathed rings of smoke that danced in the light. “It was not simply because she expressed fear at the idea of le vampire parisien.”(14)  
  
“What was happening, then? Why did you have to kill him?”  
  
“He was long since dead,” he told me, “dead since the night he returned home and attacked his wife. He was too far gone to salvage from his condition and there was no other way to neutralize him.”  
  
“He was clearly alive,” I protested, “he was moving and screaming--”  
  
Holmes smiled at me, his thin lips tight, his teeth covered. “In my company, Dr. Watson, the sooner you learn that activity and consciousness are not always indications of life, the better.” 

  


 

1 living room  
2 “Are you Mister Holmes?”  
3 “No, miss […] I am his… […] …Mr. Holmes and I, we live here. My name is Doctor John Watson.”  
4 “Is he here?”  
5 “Yes. […] He’s asleep, but I can wake him. Sit, please.”  
6 “I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. What’s wrong?”  
7 “Where do you live?”  
8 “It’s near the Seine.” […] “My husband…”  
9 “You took this path?” […] “I understand what you are seeing. We might still save him, if we hurry.”  
10 “Be quiet! He is very sensitive to noise.”  
11 “Madame, you should stay. It will be dangerous.”  
12 “I don’t think so, Mr. Holmes.” […] “He is my husband and I should be able to see him.”  
13 “Do you understand that the man in this room might not be your husband?”  
14 the Parisian vampire


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less than half a chapter, but I figured I'd post this for anyone who liked the fic enough to read to this point... Sorry the fic died :(

"He calls the mansion not a house but a tomb, he's always choking from the stench and the fumes." - My Chemical Romance, "To The End" 

My sleeping patterns shifted into irregularity after that night. I would wake late in the morning, or early in the afternoon, and finally find sleep an hour or so past midnight. My sleep, however, was not restful. When I was not troubled by the usual nightmares from the war, I relived the death of M Georges Décollère. Every time, the flames seemed hotter as though they danced across my own skin, the screaming was impossibly intense, and I saw Holmes' arms burning from contact with the silver cuffs. I could not discern any meaning to my dreams in the few attempts I had made to interpret them. My mind was troubled by these images, my injury ached from the weight that rested on my shoulders, and my stomach was heavy with guilt at my uselessness; my half-nocturnal circadian rhythm interrupted my search for employment. 

If anything, Holmes was a brick wall to my nighttime screams and the questions I asked him on those nights when he sat in the salon, lost in his tobacco and thoughts. He was almost a ghost of a man, existing only as a pale figure behind a cloud of smoke or the impression left in his chair when he was out walking at night. He rarely said a word to me, only speaking to request a book or some other small item I could bring him. Occasionally, he requested the use of my medical texts, and I lent them to him. Holmes almost always used them in conjunction with one of the long scraps of paper he would pin to the wall and write unreadable notes upon. Though he was a busy man, I didn't know how he occupied himself. He called himself a "consulting detective," the only one to exist, but there were no other late-night visitors after the widow of Décollère. 

Most nights, Holmes would leave some time after ten, disappearing until two or three in the morning. At this point, he would relax in the great green armchair and smoke his expensive-looking shag tobacco, thinking and muttering to himself. If I was still awake and attempted to interrupt him, he would either ignore me or simply glare. Nothing I could do or say would get through to him, and at best he considered me an annoying pest. On those nights I managed to sleep easily, I would be woken with the noise at his return. Holmes wore heavy black boots that were only silent when he wished them to be so, like on the night we had killed M Décollère. Otherwise, he was just as annoying to me as I seemed to be to him. Holmes was unknowable and unanswering unless he requested you; though I was a solitary man, I was almost fed up with his obstinateness that I would not know him. 

One night, Holmes had left silently and earlier than usual. Ar around eleven o’clock, I ventured out of my quarters to seek his company. The salon was empty and silent, no fire in the hearth, no smoke in the air. Holmes’ notes were tacked to the walls, unreadable in the dark. I started the fire, stoking it for a few minutes to keep it going despite the pervasive draft in the room. Once there was a fire, I looked at the notes. 

I had hardly read a word of them before the door opened. 

“I’ll start the fire,” Holmes said, his back filling the doorway, speaking to someone in front of him. I froze where I was as he turned around. “Oh, Dr. Watson,” he stated. “Never mind, there is a fire.” He walked into the room, followed by a man with twitching eyes like a greyhound’s. He was taller than most, and broad, but seemed diminished next to Holmes, with a frizzy, greying black beard that resisted attempts to trim it. “This is my flat-mate, Dr. John Watson. Don’t leave, I might well need you.” I looked over my shoulder at him, halfway to my door, and stopped again. “Dr. Watson, this is the principal inspecteur(1), Lestrade.” 

Lestrade looked at me, his sharp eyes tracing my outline. “How do you do,” he said with a hint of a French accent, his brisk words all a hurried breath. He was run-down, his shoulders slumped and his hair uncombed. I wondered how often he was called upon at such an hour, or how often he had to call upon Holmes. 

Holmes lead him inside without taking his coat, seating Lestrade in the stiff chair that was nearest to the fire but still in a direct line from his own. He perched on the edge of the pea green chair, his long fingers pressed together in front of him. “My new quarters,” he said to Lestrade. “Tell me.” 

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, leaning forward in his seat. “Tell you what?” 

“Last week you sent me a telegram asking to meet me to discuss new information you’d supposedly have tonight.” Holmes fidgeted, his grey eyes wide and desperate. “What case is this?” 

“I don’t have any case for you,” Lestrade replied, his words all knives. “You must be mistaken with that telegram, I never sent one.” 

“How interesting, because I certainly received one.” Holmes pulled the message out of his pocket, holding it between two of his long fingers and waving it in the air. “What do you make of this, Watson?”   
I took the last chair, a bare wooden thing that creaked when weight settled upon it. “Well, perhaps someone else named Lestrade has sent you this message in error.” 

Sherlock Holmes looked me straight in the eye, his dark brows drawn low over his face, his voice low and dangerous. “The thing is, I don’t know another Lestrade.” 

“Please, will you get to the point, Holmes?” 

 

1) detective inspector

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all of your support, guys!!


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